Light in the Black
by whovenclaw-holmes
Summary: Sherlock's been suffering for a long time with depression and has been able to hide it from John. Fluffy Johnlock but taking it's sweet time to get there. T only for language. Fluff. I will be writing a sequel but it may take a while. By me and my friend DesXA who has also written other fanfictions - /u/2058998/
1. The start

I do not own BBC Sherlock and no copyright infringement has been intended. The fanart also does not belong to me. I would adore any reviews and I hope you enjoy it!

* * *

**THE START**

Sherlock lifted his head.

He was sat cross legged in the middle of his bed with a plain, white sheet tented over him, wearing a long, towel dressing gown after dragging himself out of the shower with immense difficulty. He considered what he would tell John. Ill? No, he'd been 'ill' for far too long, even John wasn't that stupid. Tired? No, John knew that Sherlock's body could function on as little as three hours sleep. _Couldn't face the enormity of the world? _Sherlock sighed. He couldn't tell John the truth; he hadn't told anyone the truth he didn't see why they would want to know.

He lifted his head so the sheet shifted and draped over his long nose and pulled his thick brown hair into his eyes. He moved his hand and with long skeletal fingers dragged the sheet completely over his head until it fell in a crumpled pile on his lap. He stared down at it and lifted it to his eye level, inspecting the tiny cotton threads interweaving creating a far bigger expanse of material.

Sherlock sighed and let the cotton glide from between his fingertips, he turned his head to look outside the window and almost flinched at the sight of over eight million people just ... _living_. Buildings streamed like waterfalls down from grey clouds and the sunlight feebly fought with for it's moment of fame resulting in a sinister grey light shining over the streets. Cars raced down rivers of tarmac and people pushed each other like savages just to get to the place they 'needed' to be. What is 'need'? Does it exist or is it just something that the human race invented to keep us occupied.

_Bullshit._

Sherlock snapped his head back around and dropped onto his back with his legs still knitted into an awkward half-crossed position. He uncrossed them and stretched them out to the edges of the bed until it was almost painful just so he could _feel_ something. _Feel_ anything.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock exhaled slowly, he didn't want to talk. But it was John.

"I won't be going out today John"

"Wait-what? Why?"

Sherlock sighed; he really didn't want to talk any more. He felt like the words were separate from him and he didn't think he could stand feeling any more apart from himself than he already was.

"I-" _Shit_, what should he say? "I'm working on a case, I need to concentrate"

"Oh… OK"

Sherlock could tell John was hurt and he felt guilt pulling at him. He tried to grasp on to that feeling, it grounded him slightly.

John's footsteps slipped away and were muffled by the time he reached the carpet in the hallway, they were slow and heavy, he was disappointed going by the irregularity of the steps and the small drag on every oth- _What's the point?_ Sherlock fell back into nothing and the darkness swallowed him whole as he battled with his connection to the world.

* * *

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock woke with a start and looked up to see John's face looking down at him. He smiled. Then it came back, the feeling of darkness and emptiness and.. nothing. _I must have fallen asleep_ he thought blankly.

"I thought you were working on a case?" but it was empathy that coated John's words and not the sarcasm Sherlock had come to expect

"I-I.." The art of the English language had left Sherlock and he pushed himself to a sitting position. His hands were clammy and there were beads of sweat quivering on his brow. He closed his eyes, counted slowly to ten and then opened them again. He could feel John's worried gaze on him and shivered as the sweat turned cold on his skin the hairs lifting, violently shaking him as the air hit his skin.

"Sherlock are you OK?"

He looked up to John, panicked. He couldn't bear being seen like this, like an idiot, like everyone else and not the genius that John knew him as and what he was when he could face the world. But those times were becoming rarer and it got to the point when his 'bad patches' were quilted together and his rare 'good patches' were replaced with 'even worse patches'.

"I'm… fine"

_Fine._ What a shitty word. Pointless and lacking any meaning. The whole reply sounded ridiculously pathetic but it was what he could manage and he thought anything more could have drained the life from him.

_"Shit"_ Sherlock's hand shot to his forehead as he got a sharp pain issuing through the connections in his brain. He could feel the splintering feeling of a headache beginning to spread through his head.

John looked down at him nervously and he hovered just by the bed, his hands fluttering without purpose. He was wearing a pair of rough jeans and a worn, grey shirt. His blonde hair was messier than usual and his face was contorted in worry. He was a doctor. He knew this wasn't normal. It was mid-April and Sherlock hadn't left the house since at least the end of March. Sherlock's mind may be beyond anyone else's comprehension but his body was just as any other human's was. John had seen the patterns, a side-effect of living with Sherlock and he knew that his friend had been 'ill' far too often and for far too long. But, if he wasn't ill what was wrong?

Questions flooded John's mind and Sherlock could read every one of them on his face. He breathed heavily and took his fingers down from his head in an arch, pushing his fringe back.

"I need to catch up on sleep, I've fallen behind"

John's face lifted slightly, he wanted to believe Sherlock but he knew the symptoms indicated something deeper than just a lack of sleep.

"Headache too?"

Sherlock looked down and nodded.

"I'll get you some pills... stronger than usual"

John left the room and Sherlock's light went out. He always seemed to feel slightly better when John was around, he shrugged this thought off, he supposed he'd gotten used to John's presence after being flatmates for more than a year.

He waited for five minutes before John entered the room again to see Sherlock in exactly the same position staring into the abyss. John bit the inside of his lip.

"Here, take two" John handed him a glass of water and two large pills.

Sherlock swallowed them with difficulty – his mouth felt dry and the pills scratched his throat as they went down even with the addition of water.

"Thank you"

John took that as his sign to leave shuffling out, and as he did Sherlock felt the tide of emptiness wash over him again. Sherlock looked around the room, he desperately wanted something to stimulate his mind and get rid of this feeling, the grogginess. His eyes rested on his violin. It was a beautiful instrument, hand crafted in Italy and it seemed to shine in the hope of a melody, but now… now Sherlock looked at the violin and there was no spark. No interest. No desire to pluck away for hours. No anything.

This was a low, there had always been something that could lift him just a little but now even the idea of playing his violin sickened him. He just wanted to feel SOMETHING. His headache was subsiding but he almost wished it would stay just so he could keep his grip on reality for a little longer. This was rock bottom.

A single tear slid from the corner of his eye, into his hairline.

He wasn't naturally emotional but, to feel nothing. He couldn't handle that any more.


	2. Pancakes and icecream

**PANCAKES AND ICECREAM**

Two more days passed and other than for the bathroom, Sherlock didn't leave his room. John came in twice a day with food and questions. Sherlock replied to them with monosyllabic answers; with his brilliant mind warped by the illness it was about all he could manage. Sherlock's mind had been keeping John away from the truth but, he knew it wasn't long before he asked.

It was about two in the afternoon when John walked into Sherlock's room with a glass of milk and a bowl of soup. Sherlock didn't even glance over when John walked in, he was sat on the edge of the bed in an over-sized white shirt and a pair of black trousers, he looked pale and John noticed that his hands were shaking.

John sat down next to him on the bed and they sat in silence for a minute before John spoke.

'Sherlock'

'Yes'

John sighed but, he had to do this. To help him.

'I-is there something wrong with you?'

Sherlock sighed. He didn't want to hide it any more. What was the point?

'Yes'

John looked into his face but Sherlock continued to stare at the wall. They sat in silence again for another one hundred and eighty seven seconds (Sherlock counted) and then John spoke again.

'What is i-?'

'I think you already know, John'

'…depression?'

John's lip trembled as he continued to study his friend's face, he could see the lines of tension across his brow and the dark sunken circles under his eyes. And john came to a resolve.

John took Sherlock's hand in his and Sherlock's eyes flicked down to where John's hand supported his, he could feel John's pulse and it felt like the world surrounding them was crumbling, except for John still there beside him. His eyes finally met John's and followed the tear slipping down his cheek just as one slipped down his own.

Sherlock squeezed John's hand, because even though he couldn't feel anything. He felt John.

* * *

John stayed at home for a long time, often just sitting with Sherlock in silence trying to understand what he was going through. He'd seen this illness cripple so many with its persistent void. He couldn't stand to watch what this was doing to Sherlock and he desperately wanted to make it stop.

John knew that Sherlock barely slept at night and generally woke around 4 a.m if not earlier. So having set his alarm for 03.30, John woke to the beeping and groggily lifted himself off the bed.

Sleepy but determined, he walked to the kitchen in his t-shirt and boxers. He wanted to make Sherlock breakfast but now that it came to it; he didn't know what to make. He really didn't know what Sherlock enjoyed eating or used to enjoy eating when he was younger since he only seemed to use his body as a vessel for brilliance nowadays and John doubted he would care what food he consumed.

He decided to make a few things in the hope that that Sherlock would at least eat one of them.

First, he made a batter mix and cooked some small pancakes balancing three of them on a plate, with sugar, lemon juice and golden syrup in three separate pots at the side. He then boiled two eggs placing them on a plate full of neat little soldiers and then fried two more, grilled some bacon, made toast with a light spreading of butter, jumbled up a fruit salad and finally, scooped a bowl of vanilla ice cream with a separate jug of hot melted chocolate to the side.

It was 04.15 by the time he had finished and he set it up on a wooden tray, overlapping a few plates to fit it all on. Quietly, he pushed open the door to Sherlock's bedroom unlatching the handle with his elbow, careful not to up-end the tray.

He was right, Sherlock was awake. He was lying on the bed cocooned in his white sheet, staring up at the ceiling. When John came in he flopped his head to one side and his eyes travelled over the full breakfast tray and then over John's messy hair and old clothes.

Sherlock smiled. Small tugs at the corner of his lip, a ghost smile, but it tugged harder at John's heart.

'John I-'

'Don't worry about it'

He placed the tray down on the bedside table and Sherlock sat up slowly aching his muscles into movement, John sat next to him on the bed and talked him through his options.

'I errr don't really know what you liked food-wise so I just kind of… made it up.'

Sherlock's eyes scanned John's platter and he was touched by the effort he'd put into it, there were small details that made him happy, for instance the way John had sprinkled icing sugar over his pancakes or how he had cut his toast into neat triangles.

He ate more than he had in days and John watched him with contentment, he noted that the ice-cream was what seemed to disappear the quickest and that when Sherlock poured the chocolate over the ice-cream watching it solidify the crinkles in his face smoothed and the years seemed to drip away from him.

By the end, Sherlock had left half the toast, all but a bite of the bacon, both of the fried eggs, the orange in the fruit salad and only one of the pancakes. John looked on at him and he was happy that he might be helping Sherlock even if it was only like this, but he knew that there was still a way to go.

Severe depression wouldn't disappear at the sight of a few pancakes.


	3. Sarah

**SARAH**

The next morning John woke early again but this time instead of the kitchen he went straight to Sherlock's room. In a way he just wanted to be with Sherlock and besides he was sure Sherlock would deny more food after his consumption levels shot up yesterday. It was 04.30 so he opened the door and went in, sitting next to Sherlock who was resting against the back of the bed. John lifted the sheet over himself and shuffled closer to Sherlock to see if he could warm him up a little.

Sherlock felt the bed bounce as he did and smiled just a little, he was happy that John was here it always seemed a little better with him there.

'What are you doing?' Sherlock asked as his eyes flicked to John's screen.

John smiled, that was the first question Sherlock had asked him in a while now, curiosity was a good sign.

'Researching'

'Depression?'

'Yes, I threw out my college textbooks so Googling is just going to have to do.'

John didn't feel the need to lie. He was a fully qualified doctor but his knowledge of psychological illnesses was relatively small.

The first page he read was on the NHS website but the article was fairly brief and focussed mainly on mild depression, more commonly found than moderate or severe depression. He surfed a little longer but he knew that the rules didn't really apply to Sherlock. He shut the laptop and sighed, he turned to face him but saw that he was already watching him.

'Sherlock'

'Yes John?'

'I-I want to understand, do you- can you explain?' His voice cracked a little.

'..I don't know'

Sherlock's voice wavered and his level of insecurity unsettled John.

'It's hard' he finally said.

'I know, but anything could help'

Sherlock looked at John and could see that all he wanted was help him and get him out of this. Sherlock didn't think he'd ever truly be rid of the depression but it was comforting to know that John wanted to try and help him; he didn't have to do this on his own.

'It feels like... there's an emptiness and it needs to be satisfied, to be filled, but I can't do it. All there ever was to be happy about myself has just dissipated away from me, my interests, hobbies, communication. It's like not being able to escape a never-ending boredom because I don't have the capability to stop-'

Sherlock choked on his words and John saw the desperation in his eyes, this was hurting him so much, all of his layers were stripped back and his inhibitions were in a crumpled heap on the floor. John could see the tears sliding thick and fast down his cheeks.

'Do you want me to go'

Sherlock didn't reply but he moved closer to John and weakly grasped for his hand. John held Sherlock's hand tightly in his. It was normally Sherlock supporting John but now their roles had reversed.

* * *

Later that day, John left Sherlock who had fallen into a light sleep to go to the surgery. He knew his plan wasn't particularly legal but at least Sarah understood that John would only ever want to help Sherlock. He had a hunch she'd be at work today and so he made his way there in a taxi.

When he arrived he saw Sarah speaking to a seven-month pregnant woman over the desk and there was a large queue of people behind them. John walked over and stood behind a woman in her fourties and waited for the queue to reduce until after about twenty minutes later, he reached the front.

'John! How are you!'

She came round the desk and threw her hands around his shoulders. He relaxed into the hug, Sarah was a good friend and he was sad that he hadn't kept in touch with her.

'Hi Sarah! I'm well- not great, Sherlock.. he..'

Sarah pulled back to look at him. She could see that something was up.

'What's wrong, John?'

'It's Sherlock.'

'What's happened?'

'He's err.. he's got depression'

John's voice shook and his eyes burned.

'John.. I'm so sorry, that must be so hard.'

She took him in her arms again.

'Look, I'll get someone else on the desk. We can go into my office'

She went back round the desk and quickly dialled a number into the white phone. She had a short conversation and two minutes later, a woman in a nurse uniform walked up the corridor, had a quick conversation with Sarah and then sat behind the desk.

Sarah led john through a small door to the side into a room with cream walls, a small desk adorned with a cactus and two chairs.

John sat down and looked into his lap, he didn't want to break down, he needed to stay strong and just try to do this for Sherlock's sake. This was for him after all.

'When did he confide in you?'

John sighed and started telling Sarah about how he knew something had been wrong for a while but Sherlock had kept it well hidden from him but that John had started to look closer at Sherlock's symptoms. He said how he thought he'd subconsciously known for a long time before but he'd never wanted to confirm it in his own mind. He told her how eventually Sherlock's defences had crumbled and he finally confessed to him that he had severe depression. How ill he really was.

Sarah listened patiently and when he finished she put her hand on his shoulder and held it there sympathetically. John's head hung low and he sniffled.

'I'm so sorry, for you and Sherlock. I know how much he means to you.'

John looked up at that but she carried on smiling sadly at him.

'But, why did you come here John? I know that you would only come if it would help Sherlock in some way.'

He looked at her and sighed.

'Sarah. I know this is a big ask but… would you be able to give me a prescription for Sherlock?'

'…John'

'Look, I know it's breaking the rules –well the law but.. please. I know he would never come here himself.'

'Look.. I would but I-'

'Please Sarah- please'

Suddenly the tears started pouring down his cheeks and his whole body was shaking.

'Sarah you don't know- I've never seen him like this. It's killing him.'

She sighed.

'John please'

He was shocked to see that there was also a tear sliding down her cheek.

'I know what depression does to people, I've seen it cripple people and I've seen them give up all hope but, I've also seen them get better and begin to thrive despite their illness and eventually overcome it all together. I've seen people do that with anti-depressants but I've also seen people do it without them. I'm sorry but I think you already know I can't give them to you.'

John pushed his hand through his hair and tried to blink away the tears. He glanced up and felt Sarah's sympathetic gaze pursuing his eyes but what good would that do? _WHAT FUCKING GOOD WOULD THAT DO?_ Anger poured into his bones until he could feel the blood pumping ferociously through his veins. His hands shook and his eyes avoided hers.

'You won't give me the prescription?' He questioned for the last time.

'I can't'

'Fine! I'll just go home and wait for Sherlock to die, thanks Sarah! THANKS A FUCKING LOT!'

Sad tears ran down Sarah's face but she didn't turn away. Instead she looked at him with an unsettling finality.

'I'm so sorry Joh-'

He violently pulled on the door and as it swung it hit the wall and the handle sunk into the wall, splitting the plaster with a loud bang. He was faintly aware of Sarah calling after him and of the people in the queue throwing him suspicious glances, but the blood was pumping in his ears, deafeningly loud as he pushed his way out of the clinic and outside into the weather which had taken a turn for the worse. The tears stung as they continued to stream down his cheeks.

He quickly hailed a taxi and slammed the door behind him.

'221B Baker Street' he said and felt his voice wobble on the last word.

The taxi driver turned around.

'Err... Are you alright mate'

'Look, would you just drive please!'

The taxi sped off through London and John cursed out loud at every red light that separated him from Sherlock.


	4. Tea and sympathy

**TEA AND SYMPATHY**

John finally reached 221B and entered the hall as quiet as he could, he didn't want to attract the attention of Mrs. Hudson who seemed to have the ears of a bat. He shut the door and padded up the stairs. Once inside, he removed his shoes and then his coat which he hung on a hook near the door. He made his way into the kitchen and turned the kettle on.

He busied himself with preparing a plate of posh biscuits which Mrs. Hudson had clearly replenished in his absence. When the water was boiled he got out a tea pot and two mugs. He prepared the tea and put the plate of biscuits, the pot and the mugs on a tray.

He carried the tray into the hallway and stopped just before Sherlock's door. He tried to compose himself before walking through the door; he took a deep breath in and tried to flush the anger away in his exhale.

The first thing he was aware of was of someone leaning over Sherlock and he almost shouted in shock.

He blinked and realised that the body leaning over Sherlock lying in bed was in fact, Mrs Hudson. She lifted her head and John could see that there were tears in her eyes too. She made a silent nod towards Sherlock and John saw that Sherlock's eyes were closed and he was breathing deeply. He pushed open the door again and quietly Mrs Hudson went through the door and John followed her into the lounge.

He carried the tray and put it on the coffee table.

'Y-you got the biscuits then?' she muttered.

Mrs Hudson picked at her short nails and fiddled with her fingers, John thought this was the most agitated he'd ever seen her and in that one moment he saw how much Sherlock really meant to her. She was an old widow and he knew that with age most people started to respect what they could truly rely on in life. She kept herself busy with friends and social events but she loved Sherlock as a son and Sherlock looked up to her as a mother.

'Mrs Hudson'

'What is it John? What's wrong with him? He wouldn't tell me and I didn't want to push him in case.. in case…'

She trailed off and John reached for her hand, he held it gently in his and turned it over examining the lines running up and down like train tracks.

'He's got depression, it's a psychological illness.'

'Is it serious?' she said, her voice was only a slight whisper now.

'Yes. Very.'

She grasped his hand tightly and with a heavy, rasping breath the tears started to fall in waves.

'Oh, Sherlock'

John held onto her for a long time as she wept into his shoulder. He could have cried with her for hours too but he knew that he had to be strong for her and for Sherlock.

* * *

After a time, Mrs Hudson dried her tears and went down stairs to 'tidy herself up' but John knew that she just needed some time to deal with the grief on her own and he respected that. He heard her slippers shuffle down the stairs accompanied with occasion sniffs and mutters of 'oh dear'.

John lifted himself out of his seat and made his way over to Sherlock's room. He opened the door and Sherlock was in the same position as he had been twenty minutes ago when Mrs Hudson had been leaning over him. John approached the bed and sighed as his eyes traced over Sherlock's body and finally flickered to his face. His eyelids were flickering lightly.

'Sherlock' John said softly.

There was no answer.

'Sherlock, I know you're awake'

Sherlock didn't open his eyes but he spoke.

'How did you know John? I thought that was going rather well.'

John smiled, Sherlock seemed to be recovering from this phase at least, his curiosity was rising and the undertones of confidence were returning to his voice.

'I'm a doctor. I can tell when someone's awake and when they're not. Besides, I know when you're sleeping from that time we-errr... I mean you fell asleep on the errr… sofa…'

John blushed a deep crimson.

Sherlock's eyes flickered open in surprise, they hadn't talked about that since… ever. In fact, Sherlock never really precisely understood what _had_ happened. He remembered falling asleep with John and coincidentally getting the best sleep he's had in a long time and then he woke up to see John staring at him from the other chair. Or was that a dream? No, he was sure that was real. Then John had blushed like he was doing now and had shuffled off into the kitchen pretending he hadn't been doing anything.

John looked up and embarrassment was spread across his face along with another emotion which Sherlock couldn't pinpoint in his haze.

'I errr… I-'

'Don't worry John'


	5. The walk

**THE WALK**

Sherlock sat on the edge of the sofa. The weight on his shoulders seemed to have lightened slightly and he was damned if he wasn't going to take advantage of it. He was dressed and ready. Ready for what exactly he wasn't certain but he knew that he would do _something _today. He looked to his watch; 7:38. John would be up soon.

Surely enough, two minutes later Sherlock heard the click of John's door and his foot-steps padded in thick socks down the hall. His steps were slow but regular.

John's jaw dropped and emotions flashed across his face. Sherlock noted he was wearing an old pair of jeans and an old t-shirt with the words 'Joy Division' in large white letters against a monochrome background. He hadn't shaved for two days but he had showered late last night.

'Sh-Sherlock?'

'John.'

'But… what are you doing up?'

'We should do something.'

'Something?'

'Yes, what do you suggest?'

John pushed his hand through his hair and when he removed it, it stuck up at an odd angle.

'I err-'

'What about a walk?'

John was astounded by Sherlock's enthusiasm not just because of how he had seemed to have rapidly entered a 'good patch' but also because Sherlock had never asked John to go for a walk before. Walks were boring.

'Not with you.'

Damn. It seemed Sherlock's supposed mind-reading powers had returned.

_Yep, I'm back._ Sherlock thought to himself. However, he couldn't help think that any person with an average intelligence could have seen the thoughts written all over John's face. Now he was thinking but then-

'OK!'

John's face broke into a wide smile and he grinned at Sherlock, his eyes crinkled and Sherlock smiled back. This was OK. It was going OK.

* * *

It was a fresh and bright day in London. The streets were empty as it was still before rush hour and the city looked like it would on any other day. There was nothing special about the grey pavements or the litter around every corner but to John, it was special. This was a big step for Sherlock especially as he was the one who had suggested it. He knew this was only a break in the clouds of depression but he still couldn't keep the smile off his face.

Sherlock kept close to John and it was John who took charge of their route. He kept to the side streets which he knew were comfortable and familiar for Sherlock and it meant they could keep away from the building traffic.

After half an hour in the city, the cold was getting to Sherlock and he shivered. John felt him and he took Sherlock's hand in his and pulled him tighter into his warmth. Sherlock smiled into his scarf and they walked in silence for another two hours, often round in circles and up and down the streets.

'Do you want to eat?'

John jumped at the chance of food, he'd been starving for the last hour so they found a small café and sat in the corner at a small circular table with metal chairs which squeaked as John dragged one from the other side of the room.

'What do you want, Sherlock?'

'Oh, just tea.'

'Wait I thought you wanted to eat?'

'No, you wanted to eat.'

John was about to say something but then just smiled, walked up to the counter and asked for two teas and a plate of toast. He waited until it was ready picking up a jam jar from a selection of condiments and then paid the woman at the till. He took the tray and turned around to see Sherlock staring intently at him. Sherlock quickly looked away and pretended to study the laminated menu until John walked up.

'Enjoying the view Sherlock?' John jested.

'What?'

'Oh, nothing.'

After sitting and talking a while in the café, the two of them left and started to make their way home. They talked the whole way home, not about anything in particular and normally Sherlock would find this casual banter pointless but, not today. Not with John. He formulated witty jokes just to hear John's laugh which was as pure and beautiful as a five year old's and just as brilliant as a serial suicide case. He made observations of people walking down the street because he knew John would like that too.

'That woman there; three young children, two dogs and… divorced. She works in retail and she's planning on quitting today but she won't.'

John laughed 'Oh yes and why is that?'

'Well, look at her all of her clothes are new, new haircut, new manicure and…' he sniffed the air 'new perfume. She can't afford to lose that job.'

'I guess she does have three kids to feed.'

'Oh no it's not that, she couldn't care less about the kids, she just couldn't do without the staff discount.'

When they reached home they found Mrs Hudson pacing the hallway. As they entered she clasped her hands together in a mixture of frustration and relief. She rushed up before John had even closed the door behind them.

'Goodness Sherlock, are you OK? Are you sure you should be going out? John, I thought you were looking after him?'

'Mrs Hudson, I'm fine.'

'But surely you shouldn't be going out, it's far too cold anyway, you must be free-'

'Mrs Hudson' Sherlock walked over to wear she was standing, her shoulders were heaving and her breath was irregular. He put one of his slender arms around her and she sniffled into his coat. He dug his nose into her hair and breathed in deeply. She smelt of home. 'It's OK'

'I know I fuss too much I just-'

'Mrs Hudson, it's OK'

'I know I-'

'It's OK'


	6. A quiet day

**A QUIET DAY**

John woke the next day with a lighter heart and tentative optimism. Yesterday, Sherlock had almost been _normal_ again. _Almost._ Maybe with help, he really could get through this with or without pills. John turned to his right to face his alarm clock, 08:45, that late? He lifted himself up against the headboard and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He went to the wardrobe, fished out a tight, plain shirt, a pair of black trousers and a cosy knitted jumper. Shuffling to the mirror he hit his elbow against the wooden side table.

'SHIT!'

Sherlock woke with a start. His eyes flashed open and his whole body shivered with such a sudden awakening. He raised his wrist up to his face, pressed the worn plastic button and the time flashed with a bright green spark – 08:49, late. He pushed himself up and walked to the wardrobe. He picked out his purple shirt and a pair of plain black trousers. He pulled them on and was sad to see that they were loose around his waist. He got the Italian leather belt Mycroft had bought him as a Christmas present four years ago and reluctantly threaded it through the material, snapping the buckle into the last hole. Sherlock glanced at the mirror and just before he went out into the hall, he smoothed the small curl near his left ear down a little.

They exited their rooms simultaneously and Sherlock smiled at John's surprise.

'You've been sleeping all this time?'

'It appears so Watson.'

'Bloody hell that must be a record!'

Sherlock laughed deeply and they walked to the living room. They sat next to each other on the sofa. At the feel of Sherlock's hand accidently touching John's he couldn't help but be reminded of the time they had fallen asleep together and John had woken with his arms wrapped around Sherlock's waist… NO! No time to think about that now. John looked down into his lap, and Sherlock noted his ears started to go red.

'What is it John?'

'Nope, nothing, absolutely nothing'

'What is i-?'

'Fancy tea? I'll go get some.'

As John walked swiftly to the kitchen, Sherlock stared at his back and his mind started to drift to what John could have been thinking about. It was obviously a spontaneous thought, triggered by a specific object, emotion or setting. What was it? However, as Sherlock's mind skipped over possibilities he felt a small part of his brain noticing how physically fit John had become since they had first lived together. He was clearly exercising regularly as his body was much more defined and his legs appeared thinner yet stronger. He had thought that yesterday when he was in café. What were these thoughts? Sherlock wiped them away from him but they kept creeping back and soon his mind was buzzing. By the time John returned he was fully engrossed in having an inward evaluation of John's improved muscular density.

'Yes, thank you John' he muttered as he quickly grabbed the drink of his friend and stared at the table, still deep in thought.

'So what do you want to do toda-?'

'Thinking John.'

'Right yes, of course.'

* * *

The rest of the day passed at a steady pace, marked with occasional eating and drinking sessions. Mostly, they sat together on the sofa tapping at their separate laptops. They didn't talk much but you could never call it an uncomfortable silence. One man equally glad of the other's company.

At 06.00 John spoke;

'Sherlock, how are you really?'

'What do you mean?'

'Well… two days ago you were utterly unable to do anything and you'd entered a depth of misery that I've never seen before but now you seem… almost normal.'

Sherlock stared into the man's bright blue eyes which were slightly crinkled in concern.

'I'm not normal.'

'Okay but normal for you.'

'I don't know. Maybe I'm getting better maybe, because yesterday and today I've actually felt OK. I've felt like I might get better because it's been a long time since I've had a good patch but tomorrow it won't be the same.'

'Why?'

'I can already feel myself slipping back into the patterns of my illness even though I don't want to but, as long as you stay I think I can get through.'

'I'll stay, you know I will.'

'I know.'

John leaned across so his face was mere inches from Sherlock's and he placed his hand on Sherlock's. Sherlock jittered at the unexpected touch but John's hand still covered his with a grounding promise.

'And you will get through this.'

'No John.'

'What?' John's face creased in confusion.

'_We_ will get through this.'

John beamed and Sherlock beamed back, Sherlock reached for John's other hand. Sherlock looked down into his lap and then gently took his hands out of John's and pulled him into a strong hug. Their equally muscular arms held the other up and Sherlock rested his chin on John's head. They stayed like that for a long time and when they parted, only smiles were exchanged.


	7. The Black

**THE BLACK**

Blue eyes shot open in a dark room. The clock ticked with a sickening steadiness and pulsed inside Sherlock's head. He kicked the white sheets to the end of the bed revealing pale, bony feet. He breathed out slowly and was about to reach up and scratch his shoulder when he heard a loud bang coming from the kitchen followed by a muffled swear.

John.

Sherlock glanced at his glowing watch - 03.20 - what was John doing?

Another five minutes, another bang, followed by a yelp. Was John in danger?

Sherlock dragged himself out of bed and with painful slowness moved across the room to the door. He dragged his feet across the rough wooden floor and gained a splinter in his right toe for his trouble. He reached the door and reached his hand to the cold metal handle, pulling the door open. He thought about leaving it there, retreating to the safety of his bed. Even if John was in danger he wouldn't be able to do anything. Despite this thought, Sherlock managed to mentally push himself out the door and along the short hall to face the kitchen where he was surprised at the sight which met him.

John was slumped, sleeping, on a stool. He had his hand loosely gripping the end of a wooden spoon which was dangling by his side. In his other hand, he held a saucepan which was on the kitchen surface. Sherlock could see the sauce pan edging slowly off the surface with the weight of John's limp hand. As well as the unsteady saucepan, Sherlock could also see John's whole body sliding slowly off the edge of the stool. So John must have fallen off of the seat before - that explained the loud bangs and the swearing. It wasn't surprising, why did John think he could cook four hours before his usual waking time?

Sherlock walked silently over to the scene and glanced into the saucepan - there was a dark, thick liquid inside which also dripped from the wooden spoon onto the tiled floor. It smelt of sweet caramel. Toffee sauce. Toffee sauce? He glanced around the kitchen for further explanation until his eyes settled on the large tub of luxury vanilla ice cream sat near the fridge. Sherlock smiled. Wonderful, wonderful John.

Suddenly, John started to fall sideways and Sherlock only just managed to hook his hand around the other man's shoulders. He pulled him up into a sitting position, careful not to disrupt him. He took the spoon and saucepan from John's hands and pushed them further onto the counter. He pushed his arm around John's back and held his other hand under John's legs. He lifted him with a struggle and held him close whilst he walked to John's room, pushing the door open with his back and shoulders.

He looked around the room, John's army badges were on the mantelpiece and his wardrobe was opened showing mostly casual clothes and a suit for any formal occasions. Not that there were many anymore.

He gently lifted John down onto the bed taking care to keep his arms locked supporting the man. When he was securely on his side in a natural sleeping position, Sherlock kept his hand on his body for just a moment before moving it down to pull the duvet over his shoulders.

He looked down at him. His blond hair was getting long and fell over his closed eyes as he slept, Sherlock kind of liked John's hair this length. Before he left the room Sherlock leaned down to John's head and planted a light kiss on John's head. He smiled at the sleepy grin which flew across John's dreaming face.

'Night John'

* * *

John woke four hours later and the first feeling which entered his head was confusion. Wasn't he doing something? Wasn't it - wait. The situation came flooding back - the toffee sauce, the ice cream, falling off the stool, falling asleep and then... What happened then? How was he now in bed?

He practically ran out of the room, into the kitchen and took in the scene.

Sherlock stood over the cooker feverishly stirring the toffee sauce. There were two bowls with ice cream set to the side and Sherlock started to pour the sauce over the ice cream.

'Sherlock - what? I-'

'What made you think you could make me breakfast four hours before you normally wake? I've had to take matters into my own hands.'

'So I see. Sherlock, you don't need to do that, you should be resting.'

'I'm a little sick of resting. Besides, this provides a distraction from The Black.'

'The Black?'

'I've decided to call it The Black; it suits it much more than depression, far too boring.'

'Always with the drama Sherlock'

Sherlock smiled before turning around, bringing the ice-cream over to the table. John retrieved spoons from the draw and sat down opposite Sherlock.

'By the way, what exactly inspired you to give me ice cream at three-twenty A.M?'

'It was the thing you ate most of the other morning and I wanted to help. I knew you'd wake early.'

'How is your hip?'

John reached down to his right hip and found a bruise; it must have been from the fall.

'How did you know about the hip?'

Sherlock looked down and blushed.

Blushing? Blushing from Sherlock? Sherlock was the most straight talking and non-embarrassed person John had ever met.

'I just noticed'

John smirked playfully 'how did you notice, Sherlock?'

'For God's sake John, how do you think you got to your room, the Fairies?'

John thought for a moment. He hadn't considered it. The only way Sherlock would know about that bruise was by feeling the skin as, it would not have yet coloured.

'Ah. Thank you.'

'You're welcome'


	8. Confessions

**CONFESSIONS**

A week passed and Sherlock's semi-happiness seemed to continue on for the time being and that was enough for John.

He wasn't sure how Sherlock was coping and how this transformation had occurred, it was a long journey recovering from depression (or the black as Sherlock called it) but Sherlock seemed to be progressing in leaps and bounds. Of course, John worried about if he was hiding _The Black_ or just masking it. But he couldn't help feel a certain compassion and sincerity behind the man's words and actions. Sherlock was never very good at carrying on a lie, especially when John was around.

And Sherlock too was clueless, all he could confirm was that when he was with John, The Black seemed to leave or at least decrease and he was happier. He still wasn't sure why he had kissed John - his emotions were a muddle especially for a man who was thought by many not to have any.

After a week spent solely in the house, John knew he needed to go to visit Sarah. He had been unreasonably angry at her and he couldn't stand to think about the way he had shouted at her. She had made the correct decision lawfully, morally, and for the best it seemed.

He decided to go to the Clinic Thursday afternoon. He spent the morning with Sherlock and then after a last cup of tea told Sherlock of his plans.

'But why?'

'I told you. I want to talk to Sarah, she's a good friend'

He still hadn't told Sherlock about what had happened even though he had an inkling that Sherlock had at least partially recognized the situation. He didn't want to admit to his moment of weakness. He needed to be strong for Sherlock.

'But you haven't talked recently.'

'Hence why I should go talk to her'

'Can't you phone her?'

'I think it would be better in person'

There was a second silence before Sherlock muttered a barely distinguishable note of agreement.

John grabbed his coat and said goodbye to Sherlock. When he was down the stairs, he had a small word with Mrs Hudson to call him if anything got bad. He felt guilty for leaving Sherlock on his own but he was getting better and he needed to do this. He hailed a taxi and gave the cabby the address of the clinic. The ride was uneventful in the quiet traffic and passed with silent ease despite John's constant yearning. Of what he wasn't sure, home? Perhaps.

* * *

When he had reached the clinic, John paid the driver and walked through the glass panel door. He had chosen the jumper which Sarah had said was her favourite back when they were dating; it was navy blue with a thick cable pattern stretching down to his grey jeans.

The clinic was empty, especially compared to last time. He could see Sarah already; she was leaned over the computer tapping something onto the screen. She glanced up and noticed John. Her mouth opened and risked a small, sad smile. He smiled back, relieved. He walked quickly up to and round the desk. He faced her and he could feel a lump rising in his throat.

'Sarah, I'm sorry'

'John, you don't need to be.'

He opened his arms and she stepped into a warm, friendly hug. Different from the one he'd had with Sherlock.

They talked a little and she asked about Sherlock. He told her that he seemed to be improving at a fantastical rate. She watched pride shine in his eyes when he talked about Sherlock's recovery.

'He's fantastic, unbelievable.'

'I thought he might be'

'What do you mean?'

'He's got you.'

She smiled knowingly at him and he grinned back even though he couldn't quite identify the spark of emotion in her eyes.

Then he heard it. There was a screech of tires and the banging of hands on a door. He hadn't realized the time - 04.00 pm - he'd really been here for two hours. Then the yelling. He couldn't identify the voice. Was it a woman in labour? Whoever it was appeared to be in extreme pain. Sarah looked to John and her face was suddenly serious.

'I think it's for you John.'

John didn't understand but he walked towards the wailing and the crying and as he approached he could identify his name among the shouts. It was disintegrating into sobs. He started running towards the increasingly identifiable silhouette through the frosted glass. Closer. Closer.

Finally, he reached the door and wrenched it open.

Sherlock fell to his knees and grabbed onto John. It was raining and Sherlock was soaked through.

'John. I-I-I can't do it without you J-John. Please.'

'Sherlock.'

'I need you please, John. John. Please.'

'Sherlock.'

Sherlock was hunched at John's feet and John crouched so he was at Sherlock's level.

'Please John.'

Sherlock lifted his face. Tears were streaming down it. His hair was untidy and had been blown by the wind in a thousand directions. His eyes were alight with fear of the black. John had never seen him like this. How could he have left him for so long? John questioned not only his responsibility to care for Sherlock but also how he had managed to stay away from the man for this long. A thousand emotions cascaded through him and John's tears started to form their own puddle next to Sherlock's. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock and held him. He let him sob and he let himself sob too.

'John'

'Sherlock'

They pushed against each other so they could look into each other's eyes. And it wasn't about the black any more. They needed each other more than they ever had anything. John stared and stared into his eyes; black pupils surrounded by green, blue and grey speckled circles. He held him tighter than he ever had and before he knew why or how, John leaned towards Sherlock. Their foreheads were pressed against each other in the need to be close to each other. Their lips met out of nowhere and it felt like they were everywhere. The kiss was soft and gentle and it set them on fire.

Sherlock could feel John's forehead, his arms, his lips. He had never been more at peace, more happy in his life. The tears continued to flow in a waterfall down their cheeks and the need turned to need and the love turned to love. All he could think of was that he needed John and he didn't want to be in a world without him. He had never had any more emotions than he had now and there was no point in trying to hide it from John, his John.

They parted and stayed pressed against each other for a long time. Eventually, they both silently rose to their feet and John pushed the door open. They leaned against each other for support and even though the tears continued to fall, they were of happiness, not fear.

John had his head resting on Sherlock's shoulder and their hands were tangled around each other's backs. There were no more words; they could never do justice to the expressions they could share by skin.

They walked hand in hand, where they belonged, through the wind and the rain.


	9. Faults and Origins

This chapter (sort of) contains spoilers for John Green's The Fault in Our Stars.

* * *

**FAULTS AND ORIGINS**

They walked home. The weather was fiercely pressing against them especially with only Sherlock's coat wrapped around the both of them. But the other's body warmth kept the man warm and it didn't seem right to take a taxi and invite a stranger into this moment. It was far too special, too precious to share with anyone but themselves.

It took an hour until they were finally home, their cheeks stinging with long lost tears and the replacement of unmovable smiles.

At the door, John turned to face Sherlock and pulled him down to share another kiss on the doorstep. John couldn't help be reminded of countless cliché romantic films. He laughed aloud into Sherlock's lips.

Sherlock frowned.

'What?'

'I guess this is one way of coming out bi'

Sherlock laughed and John pressed a smiling kiss on Sherlock's pale hand. Sherlock looked down and kissed his forehead before entering the house and preparing himself to face the fuss of Mrs Hudson. He grabbed John's hand and tightened his grip which was acknowledged with reciprocation from John.

The door swung open to reveal a distraught Mrs Hudson sat on the second stair step with a pile of used tissues next to her. She looked up with frightened eyes and her mouth flew open as she took in the sight.

Sherlock looking just like he used to except with a great big beam plastered on his face. John shared his ecstatic smile and then she glanced down to their hands. White and tanned fingers tightly intertwined like vines around a tree. She smiled and broke into even more tears as her face lit up. She'd always thought they'd be good together.

She lifted herself off the step and went to hug her boys.

'I- you look. Sherl-'

'It's OK Mrs Hudson.'

'Dear, the amount of times you've told me that Sherlock! I'm sorry I tried to phone you John but you didn't pick up.'

'Ahh yes, I was stupid enough to leave it on silent. It worked out in the end I suppose'

He risked a glance to meet Sherlock's eye and Sherlock winked at him.

'What happened out there Sherlock? You just rushed out like a mad man!'

'I'm sorry, I shouldn't have put you in that situation.'

'Oh it's quite alright, God knows I'm used to all kinds of situations living in the same house as you two!' She chocked up and wiped her face with a fresh tissue.

Releasing them from the hug and looking down to their hands again, still intertwined, She smiled again, brighter as the relief replaced worry.

'I trust you have some news?'

There was a twinkle in her eye.

'I trust you've already gathered it.'

She laughed and they laughed with her.

'I think I _gathered it_ from the moment John turned up on the door step.'

* * *

Soon, the two men were upstairs and sat on the sofa, reading. One of John's hand was resting on top of Sherlock's and John's head was tilted to lean on Sherlock's shoulder which was unreasonably comfortable for someone so bony. Sherlock had a small print book which read 'The Origin of Species by Charles Darwin' on the front in a white font on a black background. The corners were curving upwards and several pages had pieces of narrow paper with Sherlock's blue scribble commenting on Darwin's theory and how the executing of its presentation could have been improved. The classic evolution silhouette images lay just underneath the author's name. John on the other hand had a newer, slightly larger book which read 'The Fault in Our Stars by John Green' on the cover. It was bright blue with two minimalistic clouds on the front and John was about half way through.

'Sherlock'

'Mmm'

'Why are you reading that book again?'

Sherlock turned to face him and looked at him earnestly.

'Darwin was a genius.'

'I know but-'

'Is John Green a genius?'

'Quite possibly. Perhaps not of science but of literacy, it's incredibly well written.'

'Hmm, well I enjoy this book hence why I have read it many times.'

Sherlock was about to assume reading when suddenly, John snatched the book from Sherlock's grasp and in a single movement replaced it with his own.

'Why not try something a little lighter?'

John winked playfully and Sherlock raised his eyebrows.

'Very well, Dr Watson. But I expect payment.'

Sherlock turned to John and looked him dead in the eyes. He leaned in and John crossed the last length between them so that their lips could collide in a flutter of sparks. John lifted his hand to Sherlock's head and Sherlock wrapped his arms around John and pulled him closer to his chest. Sherlock's lips continued to smoothly work on his when all of a sudden; John withdrew quickly from the kiss.

'And you'll get the rest when you've finished it.'

* * *

John didn't think he'd ever seen Sherlock read so fast in his entire life even including case data! The 313 page book took Sherlock a mere hour to finish and john watched the genius with incredible curiosity. Each page was turned in a matter of seconds. It was getting towards the end of the book when John noticed something strange.

'Sherlock are you... Sherlock your lip is trembling?'

'Is it?' his voice was higher than normal.

'I- Sherlock are you OK?'

'But it's not fair! He can't die, not like that!'

'Oh God Sherlock, look it's a book.'

'But it's so sad!'

'Some books are, but it doesn't make them worse than any other books.'

Sherlock continued to read the book right to the end and when he finally closed the novel with a note of finalisation he turned to John.

'That was one of the most magnificent things I have ever read.'

'Maybe because you only ever read non-fiction books.'

'But even so, a book which can make you laugh and cry is a major achievement.'

'I agree, maybe I can introduce you to a few others if you like.'

'I'd like that.' he muttered gazing at the wall and then turned to John a smile playing around his lips.

'Does that mean more payment?'

John laughed and flicked a curl over Sherlock's ear.

'Maybe so.'

He leant in and nibbled Sherlock's ear before going back to his lips that were just begging to be kissed. He bit Sherlock's lower lip and waited for Sherlock to sigh before giving him the passionate kiss he had wished for.


	10. The Light

**THE LIGHT**

John woke the next day and he reached his arm to the clock on his right. Light was peeping through his curtains and he could read the clock face without the extra illumination setting. 10:09. 10 O'CLOCK? He tried to pull himself into a sitting position on his bed but found himself restrained. He looked down and saw a pale arm snaked around his waist. He smiled and shifted his shoulders to face Sherlock with his eyes tightly closed and his breathing heavy. He must have snuck into John's bed during the night. He sighed softly at the beautiful sight of Sherlock's dark mop of hair falling over his face. He nestled his nose into Sherlock's locks and felt the man exhale steadily into his neck. John smiled.

'Sherlock, when are you going to learn? I'm a doctor for Christ's sake.'

Sherlock's eyes flickered open showing sleepy eyes.

'I thought for sure I had you convinced this time' he sighed with a smile.

He caught the collar of John's baggy t-shirt and pulled him into a kiss. Sherlock wrapped his arms and legs around John so John was nice and snug wrapped in a blanket of warm hands and feet. John kept his hands in Sherlock's hair and pushed his fingers through it.

'You seem to have developed some strange obsession with my hair John' Sherlock muttered breaking from the kiss for only a second before continuing to explore John's mouth, still new to him.

'I like it like this.'

Sherlock pulled away for a second and smiled at John before pulling him back into his arms and moving his own nose into his John's hair, in it's not-so-military hair cut.

'Me too' he sighed before he fell into a light sleep wrapped around his John.

And it was true, he looked sad when he didn't think he could see him. But he was happy when he was with him. John, his Light in the Black.


End file.
